Chapter Text
“Young master, it’s time to wake up.”
A cheeky-far too unfamiliar-voice filled Cale Henituse’s ears, jolting him awake.
“Huh…?”
Still half-asleep, Cale stared ahead, his vision swimming. Brown. White. Black. Blurry shapes that refused to make sense.
“Ah, I didn’t think you’d wake up on the first try,” the voice continued, more amused than apologetic. It sounded less like a statement and more like a deliberate tease.
“…What?”
Cale rubbed his eyes slowly, a pounding sense of déjà vu crawling up his spine. It was the bad kind-the kind that never led anywhere pleasant.
“Hm, shall I draw the curtains?” The voice asked politely, almost considerately.
Cale’s expression darkened.
‘As if I’d be calm after waking up to some random voice.’
The last thing he remembered was falling asleep with the kids.
That thought alone made his irritation spike.
He lifted his head again-and froze.
Standing there was a man with fluffy brown hair and hazel eyes, the corners crinkling as if he were holding back laughter… or perhaps enjoying this far too much.
Cale stared at him with a deadpan expression.
So tired.
So very done with life.
The man, completely unfazed, nodded to himself. “Well then, I suppose I should start explaining,” he said lightly, waving a hand with an easy smile.
Cale ignored him.
His gaze swept across the room-and his terrible premonition worsened.
Modern furniture.
A phone placed neatly by the bedside.
Clean lines. Strange materials.
None of it belonged to his world.
“…Tch.”
“So,” the man began cheerfully, “you know the God of Death-”
“Again?”
Cale cut him off as he stood up abruptly.
The mocking tone in his voice was unmistakable, but the darkness in his eyes was far from a joke. The room’s atmosphere dropped instantly, sharp and heavy, forcing the man to clamp his mouth shut.
Cale dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even further, irritation written plainly across his face.
‘I swear… I’m going to kill that bastard one day.’
His mind raced.
The kids.
His companions.
The possibility-no, the certainty-of everything going wrong.
His chest tightened.
‘Don’t tell me… not again.’
While Cale stood there silently spiraling into a crisis of epic proportions, the brown-haired man watched him for a moment before shaking his head, lips pressed into a thin line.
Yep.
He was definitely not getting between those two.
Cale’s eyes narrowed, sharp enough to kill.
A chill crawled up the man’s spine, cold as ice settling at the back of his neck.
For a reaper, this reaction was… deeply concerning.
Then again, nothing about the so-called Saint of Death (delusion of death himself) had ever been normal.
With a gaze that felt more like a scalpel than eyes, Cale asked calmly,
“Now. Explain. And who the hell are you?”
The sheer disrespect packed into his voice struck straight at the core of the Grim Reaper’s pride.
He was offended.
Yet-unfortunately for his dignity-he was also wise enough not to snap back at a human who radiated that kind of pressure.
The reaper cleared his throat, suppressing an amused smirk as he brushed nonexistent dust from his clothes. “Ah-my apologies. I am Nyx, one of the reapers under the God of Death.”
He placed a hand over his heart in a picture-perfect professional greeting.
Cale’s expression darkened with every word.
“Oh?”
Just one syllable.
Yet the temperature in the room dropped so abruptly that Nyx nearly shivered.
‘Yes. Totally the kind of human Death would adore’ Nyx thought bleakly.
“And why,” Cale continued coolly, “am I not in my home? More precisely-my world?”
Each word was venom-laced, hurled like a curse meant specifically for a certain god.
Nyx smiled stiffly, trying to defuse a ticking bomb. “Young master, it’s still early. How about we continue this conversation over breakfast?”
His gloved hands were damp with sweat behind his back.
Cale’s eyes sharpened-but he didn’t argue.
Instead, he turned on his heel and walked past Nyx without a word.
Nyx blinked.
“…That worked?” he murmurs.
They exited the room into a sleek, modern hallway leading toward a staircase.
Everything screamed expensive. Clean. Artificial.
As they descended, Cale glanced outside.
A manicured garden.
A wide porch.
Yep.
Definitely not Earth 1.
Another thing caught his attention.
‘…There’s no one else” Cale noted internally.
Just him.
And the reaper.
Entering the dining room, the warm aroma of sweet maple syrup filled the air.
Cale’s eyes lit up-just a little.
Pancakes.
Hot. Fresh. Perfectly stacked.
It had been years since he’d eaten them.
He didn’t question how they were already prepared. He had long since learned that questioning divine nonsense only led to migraines.
Taking his seat, he cut into the pancakes and took a bite drenched in syrup.
“…Good.”
He glanced up at Nyx, who was still standing.
“Start talking,” Cale said, his tone sharp-but lacking its earlier murderous edge.
Nyx nearly sighed in relief.
“After the death of the White Star,” Nyx began carefully, “everything proceeded as planned. The sealing of the God of Despair, and ensuring the White Star would neither reincarnate nor possess another body.”
Cale nodded, taking another bite.
He knew that already.
‘I personally stabbed him.’he thought flatly.
The memory made him pause-not from pain, but from the aftermath. His family. Their reactions.
He continued eating, unfazed.
Nyx scratched his cheek. “However… there exists a group that still follows the God of Despair. As you know, the White Star was merely a puppet to them.”
Cale inhaled slowly.
“The Hunters.”
Nyx nodded. “Yes. And with the God of Despair sealed, they’ve grown desperate. Agitated.”
Cale’s grip tightened around his fork.
“They’ve begun traveling across worlds,” Nyx continued, “drawing despair, spreading dead mana.”
Nyx glanced at him.
Cale met his gaze calmly, expression unreadable.
“So,” Nyx said, “they’ve found a world that has become the greatest center of despair. Enough to weaken the seal.”
Cale’s eyes narrowed. “And the gods did nothing?”
He already knew the answer.
“Why am I here?”
Nyx rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking like a child confessing something deeply illegal. “Because… the most reliable individual capable of stopping this was you.”
Cale set his fork down with a sharp clank.
“…His child.”
Silence.
“I am not that bastard’s shitty child,” Cale said evenly.
He was this close to losing it.
Did that god think he was some sort of universal janitor? Cleaning up divine messes whenever things got inconvenient?
Nyx coughed awkwardly. “So… he sent you to this world. I’m here to assist.”
Cale let out a low, dark scoff.
Nyx silently prayed for the God of Death’s safety.
Standing up, Cale crossed his arms, his face composed-while his thoughts unleashed a storm of curses.
“One more thing,” Cale said coolly.
“Why are my Ancient Powers silent? I can feel them-but I can’t hear them.”
Nyx fidgeted. “This world consists of two layers. One is governed by science and ordinary humans. The other is hidden.”
Cale blinked.
“…Magic.” he answered.
“Magic?...”
Nyx nodded. “A magical society. Witchcraft.”
Cale stared.
“…You mean like pointy hats and sticks?”
His brow furrowed deeply. “This is starting to feel like a bad children’s book.”
Nyx looked away. “…Yes. Like the ones from Earth 1.”
Cale leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
“…I hate gods.”
Cale waited.
A second passed.
Then another.
Nyx, however, remained irritatingly silent.
“…So?” Cale finally prompted, his gaze sharp. “What’s the connection between my Ancient Powers and magic?”
He tapped the table once, slow and deliberate.
“They’re completely different systems. There’s no overlap.”
Nyx smiled-wearily. Truly, this human was both fascinating and infuriating in equal measure.
“You’re correct. There is no direct connection,” Nyx admitted. “However, the issue was that we couldn’t allow your Ancient Powers to… speak inside your mind.”
Cale’s chest tightened.
“…What?”
“So,” Nyx continued carefully, “we fully absorbed them into you.”
The hollowness that spread through Cale’s chest was immediate and unpleasant.
“…Excuse me?”
“In this world,” Nyx hurried on, “magic users can read minds. Among other things. If voices were present in your head, it could become… complicated.”
Cale stared at him.
Slowly, his eyes narrowed.
None of that made sense.
And more importantly-
Nyx was sweating.
“Oh?” Cale drawled, his tone dripping with mock acceptance. “Is that so?”
The temperature dropped again.
“So you’re telling me,” Cale continued calmly, “that they can’t access my memories-but hearing Ancient Powers would expose me?”
He scoffed, eyes dark. “That logic is impressive. In a very fictional way.”
Nyx stiffened. “N-No, I mean-”
Cale placed a finger on the table.
Tap.
“Spit. It. Out.”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
The words burst out of Nyx in surrender.
Cale frowned. “What kind of bullshit-”
Nyx dragged a hand through his hair, face creased in frustration. “I really don’t know! It was the God of Death! He never explained this part!”
Silence.
“…That bastard,” Cale muttered.
He exhaled slowly, reining in his irritation. Getting angry here wouldn’t fix anything.
‘I’ll threaten him later.’
Right now, he needed answers.
“So,” Cale said flatly, “what does he want me to do?”
The venom in his voice lingered.
His thoughts drifted-briefly, unwillingly+to his children. His family. Everyone he’d left behind.
Nyx studied him with wary curiosity.
This human was strange. One moment, he looked ready to snap a god in half. The next, he was calmly seeking objectives.
Terrifying. Efficient.
“He wants you to attend Hogwarts.”
Cale stared at him.
“…What?”
“Hogwarts.”
“…Is that a hero organization?” Cale asked slowly. “Because if you’re telling me I was summoned to save the world by joining something called Hogwarts, I’d like to inform you that’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
Nyx actually smirked.
“No. It’s a school.”
“…Of course it is.”
“A school for magic users,” Nyx explained, finally moving to collect the empty dish. “Students with magical aptitude are invited.”
Cale watched him, expression unreadable.
‘I woke up. Ate pancakes. And now I’m being sent to magic school.’
‘Fantastic.’
“So,” Nyx continued, relieved that the air no longer felt like imminent murder, “you possess magic-or rather, your Ancient Powers have been adapted into it too with the efficiency to learn magic.”
Cale crossed one leg over the other, resting his chin on his hand.
“So,” he summarized lazily, “That bastard god wants me to enroll in magic school, investigate a cult, hunt down the Hunters, stop the collapse of a seal, and fix a divine mess.”
He glanced up.
“Alone.”
Nyx hesitated… then nodded.
“…Wonderful,” Cale said dryly. “A flawless plan. Truly. Why involve multiple gods when one human will do?”
Nyx clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to rub his temples.
“Just-let me explain-”
Cale smiled.
It was thin.
Dangerous.
And very, very…tired.
Nyx studied the man in front of him.
He had been told the human was around twenty-two. Nyx hadn’t bothered committing the detail to memory-ages blurred together after a few centuries-but now that he looked properly…
…That face.
Too young.
Eighteen or seventeen ,perhaps. At most.
‘Well,’ Nyx thought grimly, ‘that explains the side effects of being stabbed by a World Tree branch and not dying.’
He sighed.
To hell with it.
His legs had gone numb. How long had he been standing? Forty minutes? An hour? This conversation alone felt like it had aged him several decades.
Cale, meanwhile, looked exhausted.
He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table and dropping his head briefly onto it.
“…Sit down,” he muttered.
“Yes?”
“I said sit down.”
Cale frowned faintly. He wasn’t a good person-but he wasn’t cruel enough to make someone stand while clearly reaching their limit.
Kim Rok Soo had always been observant. He noticed the small things. Posture. Breathing. Tension. Yet ofcourse there were some exceptions.
He pushed those thoughts aside and refocused.
Nyx sat.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly.
Then he lifted a hand.
“Let me tell you a story,” Nyx began. “One that is well known in this magical-wizarding-world.”
He pointed into the air.
A translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before Cale, resolving into moving images.
Cale raised a brow but said nothing.
“So, years ago,” Nyx continued, “there was a man.”
The image shifted.
A dark figure. Pale. Red eyes burning with obsession.
“He was called a Dark Lord. A genius. A tyrant. A man obsessed with conquering death itself. Voldemort”
Cale watched silently.
“This man believed magic existed to dominate, he thought the wixen world should remain pure. That muggles- which they call normal humans, their magic affiliated children should not be honoured into wixen.” Nyx said. “He gathered followers. Spread fear. And eventually, he learned of a prophecy.”
The scene changed.
A modest house. Night. Thunder.
“The prophecy claimed that a child would be born-one who could defeat him.”
Cale’s fingers tapped lightly against the table.
‘Prophecies,’ he thought. ‘Always trouble.’
A prophecy written in red was showed,
[A child born at the end of July to parents who thrice defied Voldemort will have the power to defeat him]
Nyx voiced it out, Cale felt chills, a child?
[the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives"]
Cale remained silent yet his hand clenched.
“Fearing this,” Nyx continued, “the Dark Lord hunted the child’s family.”
The image darkened.
“A man and a woman. Ordinary, by magical standards. They resisted. They failed.”
The screen did not linger.
“The parents were killed,” Nyx said simply. “But the child survived.”
Cale’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Survived?”
“Yes. For reasons still debated, the Dark Lord’s curse rebounded. His body was destroyed. He did not die-but he was reduced to something less than human.”
The image flickered, showing shadows. Fragments.
“And the child,” Nyx concluded, “became a symbol. The boy who lived”
Cale exhaled slowly.
“…Sounds inefficient.”
Nyx blinked.
“…Excuse me?”
“Killing the parents but failing the objective,” Cale said flatly. “Sloppy work.”
Nyx didn’t argue.
“The child grew up unaware of the magical world,” Nyx continued, wisely moving on. “Until he received an invitation.”
The screen shifted again.
A castle rose into view-ancient, towering, alive with magic.
“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Nyx said. “The central institution of magical education in this world.”
Cale squinted.
“…It’s a castle.”
“Yes.”
“Kids study there?”
“Yes.”
“…Why.” Cale gets it, the wixen world was not using modern technology, or likely in stories,it didn't get along well.
But seriously, a castle?
Nyx ignored him.
Okay, rude.
“Hogwarts is divided into four Houses,” he explained. “Students are sorted upon arrival.”
The screen split into four banners.
“Gryffindor,” Nyx said. “Bravery. Recklessness. Acting before thinking.”
Cale immediately dismissed it.
“Slytherin. Ambition. Cunning. Resourcefulness.”
Cale hummed faintly.
“Ravenclaw. Intelligence. Curiosity. Knowledge.”
“…Boring.”
“Hufflepuff,” Nyx finished. “Loyalty. Patience. Hard work.”
Cale leaned back.
“So,” he said slowly, “this Dark Lord failed once, fragmented himself, and now his ideology survives through followers.”
Nyx stiffened.
“Yes.”
“And Hogwarts is where future power gathers.”
“…Yes.”
Cale closed his eyes for a brief second.
Then opened them.
“…Gods really do love recycling problems.”
Nyx could only nod.
Somewhere-very far away-the God of Death sneezed.
Nyx finally straightened, releasing a long, weary sigh.
He glanced at Cale, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet-eyes narrowed slightly, gaze distant, clearly processing far too many things at once.
“You should get ready, Young Master,” Nyx said. “The servants were instructed to arrive late so I could explain everything properly.”
With a casual flick of his fingers, the floating screen dissolved into nothing.
“Also,” he added, “all arrangements regarding your family name and status have already been handled by the God of Death.”
Cale rose from his seat and followed behind him, clicking his tongue softly.
“As he should.”
Nyx pretended not to hear the threat hidden in that casual remark.
“You are still the son of a Count,” Nyx continued as they walked. “In England, noble families still exist-much like the royal family.”
Cale’s expression remained flat.
‘Of course. Toss me into another aristocracy. Why not.’ Well, the money is great at last.
Nyx stopped before a door and opened it, gesturing inward. “This will be your dressing room.”
He paused, then added, “Since you possess magical aptitude, your letter should arrive soon.”
Cale halted mid-step.
“…Letter?”
“Yes. Your first-year letter.”
Nyx smiled.
Cale did not like that smile.
Something about it screamed divine nonsense incoming.
“And what age,” Cale asked slowly, “does this school send first-year letters?”
“Eleven.”
Cale’s eyes darkened as he entered the room.
“Do I,” he asked mildly, “look like an eleven-year-old child to you?”
Nyx shook his head. “No.”
Cale relaxed-
“Your registered age is ten,” Nyx continued pleasantly. “You’ll be turning eleven in a few weeks. Your body will adjust accordingly. These changes take time to stabilize.”
He smiled brightly.
Cale went still.
“…The fuck.”
Nyx wisely stepped back.
Cale stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Same face. Same red hair. Same eyes.
Yet- in a few seconds of entering the room, now seeing, he was a child?!
He swore, he was not a child mere seconds ago-
Heck the view was even like, all around him things were taller and all, fuck.
“…I’m going to kill him,” Cale muttered softly, it was such a cute threat with the face of a child now.
The God of Death’s life expectancy plummeted dramatically in that moment.
Somewhere far, far away, a god felt a violent chill and had no idea why.
Cale crossed his arms, glaring at the mirror.
“Magic school. Cult investigation. Child body.”
He scoffed.
A few hours passed.
By the time the clock crept toward two in the afternoon, Cale Henituse was sprawled across a couch with a deep frown on his face.
One small hand held a cookie.
The other hovered over a plate, clearly debating which one to sacrifice next.
Crumbs littered his clothes. His fingers. The couch.
And yet-
Despite the mess, despite the careless posture, there was something effortlessly noble about his profile. As if dignity were ingrained into his bones and stubbornly refused to disappear-even when reduced to a child’s body.
The servants moving about the mansion were barely holding themselves together.
So cute.
Look at him.
Isn’t he adorable-
Nyx, watching from a distance in his newly acquired butler uniform, found the entire scene deeply amusing.
Cale looked exactly like a child lost in thought, carefully weighing the importance of each cookie.
Nyx alone knew the truth.
That child was contemplating how best to murder a god.
Smiling faintly, Nyx approached.
Cale reacted instantly, sharp eyes snapping toward him.
‘Good reflexes,’ Nyx thought. Terrifying.
If he hadn’t known better, he might have reached out and pinched those cheeks.
Cale Henituse as a child was-regrettably-adorable.
Alarmingly so.
“Is something the matter, Young Master?” Nyx asked smoothly, every bit the perfect butler.
Cale frowned.
He had been told to wait. Just relax until his eleventh birthday arrived. Honestly? That part didn’t bother him at all.
Slacking was a talent.
But-
It’s been too long.
He wanted to see the world. The modern one. Screens, streets, noise, life.
They were currently in Surrey. Nyx had mentioned something about it being close to an alley-some oddly named place Cale hadn’t bothered remembering.
He was also surprised by how… free he was while being the sole son of Henituse County.
Apparently, due to his “parents’ unfortunate passing,” no one expected much of him. His current guardian was Nyx-officially his butler and caretaker.
Unofficially?
A babysitter.
“Let’s go out,” Cale said simply.
Nyx blinked. “An… outing?”
Cale’s eyes narrowed.
“What?” he snapped. “Do you expect me to sit here like a decoration and wait for my birthday, then immediately get dragged into that god’s mess?”
He scoffed.
“If so, you’re mistaken. I’m taking my sweet time.”
Nyx nearly laughed.
The seriousness of the words, combined with the fact that they came from a child covered in cookie crumbs, was devastating.
He barely managed to hold it in.
“…Very well,” Nyx said, reaching out to wipe Cale’s hands.
Smack.
Cale swatted his hand away with an annoyed glare.
“Tch.”
Nyx sighed and instead brushed the crumbs off Cale’s clothes, earning a soft, irritated grumble.
Cute.
Painfully cute.
Nyx paused, then continued dusting anyway.
‘I never thought a human child could be this dangerous,’ he mused, ‘or this adorable.’
Cale leaned back against the couch, grabbing another cookie.
“…Hurry,” he muttered. “I want to see this ridiculous world before it tries to kill me.”
Nyx smiled to himself.
‘God of Death,’ he thought, ‘you’ve truly found a monster of a child.’
And the monster was currently choosing between chocolate chip and butter cookies.
Meanwhile, in Surrey-at Number Four, Privet Drive-
A boy sat quietly on the grass near the pavement.
His clothes hung off him awkwardly, an oversized shirt draping over his thin frame, sleeves nearly swallowing his hands.
Paired with worn trousers and scuffed shoes, he looked more like a neglected stray than a child with a home.
His round glasses were cracked along one lens.
He couldn’t have been more than ten-but anyone looking at him would have guessed eight, perhaps nine at most. His cheeks were hollow, his limbs too slight, his posture instinctively small.
Harry Potter hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the grocery bag resting beside him.
Aunt Petunia had told him to go out to buy groceries. Again.
He sighed softly and touched the paper handle, fingers tightening just a little.
“I hope I don’t meet Dudley and his friends…” he murmured under his breath.
Harry always tried his best not to upset Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. He really did. He stayed quiet. He followed instructions. He kept out of the way.
But Dudley-
Dudley never needed a reason.
If something went wrong, somehow it was always Harry’s fault. And that usually meant shouting. Or punishment.
Or the cupboard.
Harry’s shoulders slumped at the thought.
‘I just need to go and come back,’ he told himself. ‘Quickly.’
He picked up the bag and stood, brushing grass from his trousers. Reaching up, he hastily pushed his messy black hair forward, carefully hiding the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
He didn’t like it when people stared.
Didn’t like questions.
Didn’t like being noticed.
“I should go…” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
With one last glance toward the house, Harry turned and began walking
down the street-small, quiet, and hoping, as he always did, that today he might be left alone.